


I've Got Rabbit Blood In Me

by Abi (justabi)



Category: Entourage
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-10
Updated: 2008-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justabi/pseuds/Abi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Well I can roar like a lion, I can sting like a bee, But some times I think, baby, I've got rabbit blood in me, 'Cause I'm a lover not a fighter...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got Rabbit Blood In Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dancinbutterfly who has a deep love of Entourage, and porn, and I can get behind that. Thank you roxymissrose for just in general being totally awesome, and loose_pages_sd for lending me your amazing beta services. You rock.

Vince loses track of E sometime after they get back to L.A. from Joshua Tree, pull into Ari's driveway, and try to pull themselves the fuck together to talk to Mrs. Ari. One minute he's standing right next to Vince, pulling a serious business face and talking about business, the next minute E's wandered off to god knows where. Meanwhile, fifty well-proportioned guys are still frolicking naked in Ari's pool while Ari's head explodes. Mrs. Ari, being a friend to the gays in a way clearly calculated to make Ari insane, has let them in the liquor cabinet and sent the kids back to her sister's for the night. Ari's still a little tripped out and there is pretty much zero hope for him to get the flock of pretty, muscled gay boys to go the fuck home.

It's hilarious until Vince sees Eric with his head thrown back and moaning, pressed up against a wall by some dude who looks like a member of the French Rugby team or possibly an underwear model who's got his mouth on Eric's throat, one hand up the back of Eric's shirt, one down the front of Eric's pants. Fuck. Dude's huge and black and bald and rubbing his monster fucking dick against Eric's thigh. Fuck. Oh, fuck no. Not after what happened in Cannes. _What the fuck, Vince, I'm not like that, Jesus._ Not in this fucking lifetime.

In all Vince's three-odd decades he's never, not once started a fight, not even when Joey Morelli called him a fag and told everyone Vince's pretty lips were just made for sucking cock. That's why they kept Dom around, back in the day. Sure, Vince had had to throw a few punches back home, but even then, only when the other option was to get pounded into a bloody mess on the pavement. Sometimes not even then. Their father only hit harder and longer if Vince fought back. E was a scrapper back in the day, though, and you know Johnny and Turtle like to throw down now and again, but Vince has always been a lover, not a fighter.

Apparently there’s a first time for everything, though. Not only does Vince not stop his fist from slamming into Mr. Hand's-Down-The-Pants' jaw, but when the guy says, “What the fuck?” Vince fucking snarls and _bites_ the guy. Vince can taste blood in his mouth when Lloyd's Tom pulls him up and off.

E's so out of it, Vince isn't even really sure he noticed – the guy or his absence, either one. He looks wrecked, lips blood red and bitten, pants still undone, head still thrown back. Vince snarls again and lunges against Tom's arms when Lloyd leers at E. Thank god for Turtle, who tucks E back in and hustles them both back to Ari's car. Turtle doesn't wait to ask Ari for permission to borrow it, just peels out onto the street and floors it back to Johnny's place. Ari probably won't mind. Hell, Ari probably gave Turtle the keys just to get them out of there. Shit.

Vince wishes E was sitting in the back with him, just wants to touch his arm to make sure he's okay, or something, but Turtle strapped E into the front seat and Johnny stuffed Vince in the back and there wasn't time to even think of protesting. It's not even like Vince doesn't know it was colossally stupid to fly into a jealous rage over someone who doesn't want him, never mind that a blind item about Vince throwing punches at a gay house party under the influence of a more shrooms than he's used to isn't going to help his cause with He Who Must Not Be Named, but fuck it. He does not care. All he can do is drink in the sight of E sitting there looking fucked out in the front seat and seethe. Vince can't see his face—E's silent again, head lolling toward the window like he can't quite hold it up—but there's a bright pink bite mark on the side of his neck. Vince's fists itch to hit something.

When they get back to Johnny's place he tries to go with E and Turtle, but Johnny actually fucking manhandles him into the master bath and shoves him onto the toilet. Vince tries to get up, but Johnny shoves him back down, gently saying, “Chill, bro. Mi casa es su casa, but like hell if that means you get to bleed on my 700 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. We're on a budget.” Which is when Vince looks down at his hands. The knuckles are ragged and scabbing up at the edges where Johnny's dabbing something on a cotton ball that stings like a bitch.

What seems like an hour later Johnny gives Vince a clean shirt and sets him loose. Turtle presses a beer into his hand, says, “Way to go, Champ,” punches the air a couple times and laughs. “Who fucking knew you had it in you?” Vince takes a slug off the green bottle and walks off in the middle of Turtle saying who the fuck knows what about _protecting E's honor_ and _bunch of horny fags_ as if that had anything to do with it.

The bottle drops from Vince's fingers when he walks in E's room. Johnny'll be pissed; it'll probably stain, but _fuck_... The windows are all open, but the night air is warm. E's laying in the center of his bed, half undressed, blue button down shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose at his sides, sweat beading up on his naked chest, pants shoved down hairy white thighs and forgotten, dick neglected heavy and drooling on the hollow of his belly. E's just lying there, perfectly still and silent with his hands clenched in the sheets like he wants to touch and just can't.

Vince throws himself onto the bed, crawls on top of Eric and bites E's neck where it's pink and throbbing with E's pulse. He bites it and sucks until it's red and angry and E's moaning like a whore. Just because E can't speak doesn't mean Vince can't though, so he whispers _whore_, and _mine_, and _liar_, bites harder, sharper. The broken, aborted sound Eric makes when Vince shoves his hand down to cup his cock through his pants brushes against Eric's exposed dick makes Vince frantic.

E just keeps lying there, frozen, while Vince rips Eric's pants the rest of the way off, opening his own just enough to get his cock out and jerk himself a few times. Looking at E like this is going to make him come, but that isn't fucking enough. Vince needs to _fuck him_, sucks another angry red mark where the top of E's thigh meets his groin and growls, “I'm going to fuck you,” into the skin just before E comes wet and messy all over his own belly without so much as Vince's hand on him.

Vince says _fuck_ harsh as his own breathing, suckles at the head of E's dick to get the last of the spunk, buries his nose in the wiry, auburn hair at Eric's crotch and inhales. There's no time for condoms or lube or anything else, so close, _fuck_, so Vince scoops the jizz off E's skin, slicks his cock and shoves himself inside. Eric's eyes clench shut tight and his thighs splay open and fall at Vince's sides.

Vince fucks him. He can't stop, can't stop fucking Eric, wouldn't if he could, _needs_ this like he needs air, just keeps slamming his cock in Eric's ass hard as he can until something snaps.

All of a sudden E's with him, groaning, ”fuck, fuck, fuck” in Vince's ear, one hand scrabbling down the back of Vince's shirt, one hand fisting hard in Vince's hair, thighs wrapped tight around Vince's waist, heels shoving the jeans off Vince's ass and pulling him in. E wriggles hard and twists and then Vince is flat on his back, E on top of him, nails digging into the soft skin of Vince's chest, fucking himself on Vince's cock. Vince thinks he might actually die; Eric's hard again, biting his bottom lip and staring right in Vince's eyes like he finally _sees_ him. Vince comes with a shout watching E jerk himself off. Eric whimpers when he comes for the second time and collapses on top of Vince in a heap.

Vince can't even breathe for all the words he isn't saying, so he just wraps his arms around E, presses dry kisses against the crown of E's head and hangs on. E's breathing evens out before Vince dares to shift some of E's weight off, but even dead to the world asleep as E is, he clings to Vince and whuffles warm, wet air into the curly hair at the top of Vince's neck. A gust of breath comes shuddering out of Vince all at once. Hot tears prickle behind his eyes. Vince blinks them back and tells himself that this time will be different.

 

* * *

 

_**I'm a Lover, Not a Fighter** _

Well I met a pretty girl, as pretty as can be  
I thought she was my baby till she introduced to me  
A great big tall fella, about six foot tall  
I shivered and I shook, couldn't do any more

'Cause I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
And I'm really built for speed  
Built for speed

Well, some people think I'm lazy but there's one thing they don't know  
'Cause when I'm in the mood I can go daddy go

'Cause I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
And I'm really built for speed  
Built for speed  
Built for speed  
Whoa yeah

Well I can roar like a lion, I can sting like a bee  
But some times I think, baby, I've got rabbit blood in me

'Cause I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter  
And I'm really built for speed  
Built for speed  
Built for speed  
Whoa yeah

~The Kinks


End file.
